She Can Hide (She Can #4)(47)

He scanned the unfinished cellar. Boxes of discarded crap still dominated the room, but the windows had been covered with towels. In the far corner, the clutter had been shoved out of the way. The items that sat on a discarded table brought the taste of Italian seasonings into Derek’s throat: a scale, a hot plate, and rubber gloves.

An engine rumbled from the street. Derek bolted back up the steps. He didn’t stop until he was locked in his bathroom. The situation had just gone from a yellow caution to red alert.

There was only one reason Joe would have a scale and a hot plate in the basement. He was cooking meth.

Derek leaned over the toilet and heaved up his spaghetti and meatballs. With the food’s exit from his body, every ounce of contentedness from the evening was replaced with terror.

Derek flushed the toilet, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face. As he brushed his teeth, possible outcomes ripped through his mind, each one a nightmare scenario. Was his mom using yet? Given her weaknesses, it was only a matter of time.

What should he do?

The card Ethan had given him poked his thigh through the thin fabric of his front pocket. Derek memorized the number, ripped up the card, and flushed it down the toilet. No point in giving Joe a good reason to kill him.

But there was no way Derek could maintain his current air of invisibility.

He had to stop Joe before he blew up the house and Derek and his mom both ended up dead. But how?





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Late-morning sunlight slanted over the dormant grass of the backyard. Looking out the kitchen window of his one-story house, Roy Abrams chugged his third cup of coffee. His rise-at-dawn habit had gradually faded over the past year, but this was fucking ridiculous. Even though he’d slept until ten o’clock, he was still achy and stupid from another restless night. It wasn’t his conscience that kept him awake. He had to get up and take a weak-ass leak every two hours. Some days he felt like he was ninety instead of fifty-seven. Maybe being a cop had aged him prematurely.

Getting old sucked.

In the summer, he spent his days on the water. The sea air and physical exertion wore him out until his body passed out at the end of the day. But in the winter, he had nothing to do but scratch his own ass.

If the housing market in Jersey hadn’t tanked, he’d have moved to Florida when he retired. He should have squeezed just a little more cash out of that last deal. When the payee coughed up that much dough without any attempt at negotiation, Roy knew he’d set his price too low.

But on the other hand, dead men couldn’t spend a nickel.

Rays of sunlight splashed over his pride and joy, an eighteen-foot Grady-White fishing boat with a center console and a 150-horsepower four-stroke outboard engine. The trailer took up a quarter of his small rear yard, but what the hell else was he going to do with the space? His next-door neighbor had a swing set for his grandkids, three loud and whiny toddlers the older couple babysat regularly. Roy didn’t have grandchildren. Both his marriages had failed before kids had even been considered. Thank God.

A sudden wind gust sliced across the yard. The cover on his boat flapped. One of the cords must have loosened. This winter had been brutally cold and windy. Roy went to the closet and pulled out a coat. Shrugging into it, he fished in the pockets for a hat and a pair of gloves, then went out the back door in the laundry room.

God damn, it was cold. He hunched his shoulders and tucked his chin behind the neck of his jacket. Bits of crusted snow crunched under his sneakers. The cold blasted through his jeans before he’d crossed the twenty feet of brown grass that comprised his backyard.

A cursory inspection revealed a snapped bungee cord. Roy ducked into the shed for a new one. A few deft movements later, the cover was secure and his boat was protected. He ran a hand across the gleaming white fiberglass hull.

Yes, he’d splurged. But he deserved the best. He’d gone through hell for the money to buy this boat. His moment of genius had bought him a shitload of grief.

But that was all in the past. He had years left to enjoy the fruits of his nasty labor. He sure as hell couldn’t have afforded the Grady-White on his pension alone. Damn it. He’d put his life on the line for decades. He deserved something nice for his retirement.

He gave the hull a final caress and headed back to the house and a hot cup of coffee. Maybe he’d drive down to the bakery for fresh doughnuts. Back in the laundry room, the heat stung his cold-raw face. He stripped off his outdoor gear. Rubbing his hands together and blowing into his fists, he went into the kitchen.

He picked up the glass carafe, side-stepped to the sink, and dumped the half inch of lukewarm coffee. He rinsed the pot and refilled the machine.

Fabric whispered. Roy froze. His shoulder blades itched, and his bowels cramped. His long career as a cop gave him extra senses, and right now they were telling him he wasn’t alone.

His gaze shifted to the blur of a figure in the shiny chrome of the toaster. He eyed the knife block, but it was out of reach. The glass coffeepot was the only weapon at hand. Roy’s fingers tightened on the handle. The figure moved. Roy started to whirl around, but a body slammed into his back. The coffeepot was knocked from his hand. Glass shattered on tile. A cord whipped around his neck. Thin and flexible, it cut off his next breath like a blade.

He grabbed for his throat and tried to work his fingers under the cord. But even as he struggled, he knew it was pointless. His attacker was bigger and stronger and had the element of surprise on his side.